Marc sat against the cold wall. His fingers traced the grooves of the Torq absently in the dust, as if he could erase its mark by sheer force of will.

  He saw that gaze again. A single eye, threaded with gray veins that snaked toward the temples.

  Not a look of hatred. Not a look of contempt.

  A look of evaluation.

  As if the one-eyed Vektor had weighed his soul on an invisible scale and found the weight... interesting.

  Davorin sat beside him with a low grunt, his bones cracking like dry wood. He handed Marc a flatbread, which he took without a word. The old Karsak chewed slowly before speaking, his voice rough as gravel beneath a cartwheel.

  — The one-eyed man, he said at last.

  It wasn’t a question. Davorin knew. Everyone knew. In the Pit, a glance spoke louder than a scream.

  — Yes, Marc replied.

  His voice was flat, uninflected. But something in his tone made Davorin look up. Just for a second. Just long enough to see the glint in Marc’s eyes—not fear. Not hope. Something more dangerous.

  Anticipation.

  The old Karsak spat on the ground, a blackish streak that splattered against the stone with a wet sound.

  — Varro, he said. That’s his name. Vektor Argent. Arena instructor.

  He paused, as if hesitating to say more. Then he shrugged, the chains at his wrists clinking faintly.

  — If he noticed you, that’s a very bad sign.

  Marc didn’t react. He broke off a piece of flatbread between his fingers, watching the black crumbs fall onto his knees. They looked like shards of coal.

  — Why? he asked at last.

  Davorin gave a joyless chuckle.

  — Because Varro doesn’t notice anyone, boy. Except those he’s going to break. Or those he’s going to forge.

  Silence. Then:

  — Tomorrow. At dawn. Level one, Marc repeated.

  He touched his Torq. The metal was warm against his skin, as if it had absorbed the heat of his own body. Or perhaps the heat of that gaze, earlier. Something had changed. He didn’t know what yet. But he felt it, like the storm before the thunder rolls.

  The Pit might not be his grave.

  The two Copper Vektors dragged him from the cell like a sack of grain, their plate armor clinking in the narrow stairwell.

  Marc felt their fingers dig into his arms. The air changed with the first steps. Cooler. Less thick with the metallic soot that had clung to his lungs for weeks. Each breath stung his lungs with dry cold, but he didn’t cough.

  He followed the guards’ rhythm, their boots striking the stone in a steady tempo.

  The bluish torchlight of the Pit faded gradually, replaced by a purple glow filtering from the upper levels. Marc looked up. Through the spiral staircase’s bars, he glimpsed fragments of sky—not blue, but a deep violet, streaked with copper clouds that seemed to melt like molten metal. The Ocre wasn’t yet "risen," but its perpetual presence was already growing stronger.

  A guard shoved him between the shoulder blades.

  — Faster. The voice was rough, the Korp guttural.

  Marc understood the intent more than the words. He quickened his pace, his toes gripping the worn steps. His legs hesitated during the steep climb—not from effort (Akheros’ light gravity made it almost easy), but because his muscles, forged under 1.0g, protested this strange lightness. Each step required concentration. He stumbled on the tenth step, his hand instinctively reaching for support that wasn’t there.

  A dry laugh rang out behind him. A calloused hand grabbed the collar of his torn tunic and yanked him upright.

  — Walk. The guard bared his teeth.

  Marc straightened, shoulders forward to find his balance.

  He cast one last glance downward. In the cell’s darkness, he barely made out Davorin’s silhouette, leaning against a lower wall. The old gladiator didn’t move, but his hand rose slowly, palm open. A gesture. Not a farewell. An acknowledgment.

  Marc nodded once, sharply. "I won’t forget you." The thought crossed his mind, clear and cold as a blade. Not a promise. A fact. Because a man who abandoned an ally in the Pit never truly left, even if his feet walked the surface again.

  The steps widened as they ascended. The air grew drier. Marc felt the sweat dry on his neck, leaving a salty crust that pulled at his skin. He kept his eyes downcast, as he’d been taught. Not in submission. By calculation. A slave who met a Vektor’s gaze was a slave asking for the Tulwar.

  The final turn. Then light.

  It struck him like a maul. Marc squinted, his facial muscles tensing despite himself. Even through his lashes, the dying star’s glare was unbearable—a monstrous copper disk occupying a third of the sky, streaked with dark veins like poorly healed scars. The heat pressed down on him, immediate and heavy. He felt his pores dilate, his skin burning under the infrared assault.

  — Stand.

  The voice came from ahead. Marc blinked, gradually making out the silhouettes before the staircase’s exit. Two more Vektors, these in full armor, their polished metal plates reflecting the Ocre’s light like warped mirrors.

  Between them stood an older man in a pale yellow tunic that hung on his frame like an oversized canvas. An Oskan. His small, bright eyes examined Marc from head to toe, lingering on his shoulders, forearms, chest.

  The Oskan’s gaze traced Marc’s arms, pausing on the prominent veins, the old scars. He prodded the muscles with a stick like a butcher evaluating meat, unhurried, unemotional. Then he stepped back, eyes half-lidded.

  One of the Vektors spat on the ground, a reddish streak splattering in the dust with a wet sound.

  — Your price?

  The Oskan didn’t answer immediately. He circled Marc slowly, as if searching for a flaw in the stone. Then he stopped before him, so close Marc smelled oil and hot metal.

  — Forty copper Sols.

  The Vektor who had spoken sneered, though his eyes remained cold. "Sixty. And you take the other two—the fair-haired one and the woman. Or nothing."

  The merchant didn’t even blink. He extended an open palm.

  — Forty. Or I walk, and you keep the other two.

  Silence.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Then the Oskan produced four large octagonal copper coins, tossing them one by one into the Vektor’s palm. They clinked dully, like nails falling on stone.

  — That’s a good deal for you. But if he doesn’t last three fights, I’ll remember it in our future dealings.

  The Vektor slipped the coins into his own purse without counting them. "He’ll last." His voice was calm. Certain.

  One of the Vektors shoved Marc toward the Oskan with the flat of his sword, just hard enough to make him stumble.

  — Come, Karsak, the Oskan said.

  Marc followed him toward the exit, where the Ocre’s copper light traced sharp outlines on the black stone walls.

  The staff landed in the red sand with a muffled thud, kicking up fine dust that settled slowly.

  Marc picked it up. The wood was heavy, dense, striated with dark veins that gleamed in the Ocre’s copper light. Not oak. Not ash. Something harder. More alive. He turned it in his hands, feeling the ridges beneath his fingers—marks from past blows, notches telling stories he wouldn’t understand.

  — I’m Grukh, the man said.

  Grukh didn’t move. He sipped from his clay bowl, eyes half-lidded, waiting. Around them, the Ludus hummed like a metal hive—clattering weapons, stifled grunts, the distant clang of a hammer on an anvil. A guard laughed somewhere, a rough voice breaking into a phlegmy cough. No one coughed like that on Earth. As if lungs here were made to spit iron rather than air.

  — Strike, Grukh repeated, not raising his voice. Not an order. A given that Marc would obey.

  Marc gripped the staff. There was no designated target. Just the guard who had laughed, leaning against the black stone wall, arms crossed over his thick leather cuirass. The man smiled, a chipped incisor slanting. He looked like he’d been waiting for this. As if it were a game. As if Marc were already a toy in their hands.

  The legionnaire didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t afford to. He stepped forward, feeling the sand shift beneath his bare feet—they’d taken his boots along with his name. The light gravity gave him a strange floating sensation, as if walking on thick water. He raised the staff to shoulder height, both hands gripping the wood, elbows tucked. Not like a duelist. Like a man about to break wood.

  The guard didn’t move. He kept smiling, until the staff struck.

  Not his skull. Not his shoulder.

  The knee.

  A sharp crack, like a dead branch under a boot. The man screamed—a high sound that echoed off the walls before dying in the sand. His knee buckled. He collapsed, hands outstretched, but Marc was already there, staff raised again, this time diagonally, aiming for the opposite shoulder.

  Grukh didn’t flinch. He simply set his bowl on the stone table beside him, fingers brushing the chipped rim. Somewhere, another guard cursed. No one moved to help their comrade.

  — Enough, Grukh said.

  Marc stopped. The staff trembled slightly in his hand, not from exertion, but because the wood vibrated, as if it had absorbed part of the impact. He dropped it. The guard now lay on his side, gasping, one hand clutching his knee. His eyes—black—fixed on Marc with hatred so pure it was almost respectable.

  Grukh finally stood, his wooden prosthesis scraping against the stone. He circled Marc slowly, as one inspects a horse. Then he stopped before him, so close Marc smelled wine on his breath, mixed with something older, more metallic.

  — You don’t strike like a Karsak, Grukh murmured. You strike like a man who’s killed before. Many times.

  Marc didn’t answer. He didn’t yet know how to say "I served in places where we didn’t count the bodies" in Korp. And even if he did, he wouldn’t have said it. Words were weapons here. He preferred to keep his hidden.

  Grukh smiled. Not a friendly smile. The smile of a merchant who’d just found a rare piece in a scrap heap.

  — Forty Sols is a good deal, he repeated, as if to himself. But you... you might be worth more.

  He gestured toward the wounded guard, still curled in the sand.

  Two more Vektors stepped forward to help him and led him from the courtyard. One of them cast a glance at Marc—quick, calculating. No pity. No anger. Just the cold assessment of one warrior to another.

  — You’ll start in a few days, Grukh said, resuming his seat on the bench.

  He took another sip from his bowl, eyes still fixed on Marc.

  — You might survive. If you’re as good as you look.

  Marc didn’t ask what awaited him if he lost. He already knew. He’d seen the scars on the walls. He’d smelled the dried blood in the air.

  He simply nodded once.

  Grukh smiled again, more broadly this time.

  — Good, he said. Because if you die, I lose forty Sols. And that, Karsak... that would put me in a bad mood. But it won’t be your problem anymore.

  The Grath dormitory—a communal cell with black stone walls streaked with copper veins.

  The air smelled of sweat, heat, and that almost electric scent Marc had learned to recognize. The floor was a bed of fine brick-red sand resting on black stone slabs, smoothed by years of dragging feet and bodies thrown down after fights.

  No beds. No mattresses. Just piles of worn blankets, stacked here and there along the walls. An oil lamp, hung from a wrought-iron hook, cast a bluish glow that made the scars on bare torsos gleam.

  Grukh had ordered two guards to bring him here.

  The massive black wood door slammed shut behind him with a sharp click. No lock. None needed. Where would he go?

  Five pairs of eyes studied him.

  Marc stood still, fists slightly clenched, shoulders back. Not in provocation. By habit. The Legion had taught him that showing your neck was showing your throat. The rules here were different, but instinct didn’t change.

  The nearest man stood. A hulking figure, his skin striated with scars. His short, coarse hair was so black it absorbed the lamplight. He had the shoulders of a stevedore and the eyes of a man who had killed without counting. A brand—a broken circle—gleamed on his left pectoral.

  — You. New. His voice was a rough growl from deep in his throat. The Korp was slow, syllabic, as if each word were a hammer blow. You. New.

  Marc didn’t answer right away. He assessed. The man spoke slowly, as if to a child or an animal. He’s testing my reaction. Seeing if I’ll snap. If I’ll growl. If I’ll lower my eyes.

  He stayed silent. Waited.

  The man stepped forward. The scent of oxidized copper—dried blood—reached Marc. Recent wound. Not healed. Possible infection.

  — Name? The brute tapped his own chest, then pointed a thick finger at Marc.

  Marc understood. He tapped his own chest in turn, mimicking the gesture.

  — Marc.

  The man barked a joyless laugh.

  — Mar-kh. He rolled the r like a pebble in his mouth. Funny. Not a name from here. He turned to the others, shrugging. Karsak. Not a warrior. Just… He made a vague gesture, as if shooing a fly. …meat.

  A general laugh rippled through the cell. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… observant. Like laughing at a lamb being led to slaughter.

  Marc didn’t flinch. He’d heard worse. In the desert. In Marseille bars. In barracks where legionnaires tested rookies. They want to see if I’ll break. If I’ll bare my teeth. If I’ll back down.

  He did none of that.

  The brute studied him a moment longer, then shrugged, as if disappointed by the lack of reaction.

  — Me, Korvek, he said at last, thumping his chest again. You… He jerked his chin at Marc. …Mar-kh. Grath now. Not Karsak. Not dead yet. He smirked.

  Marc nodded once. Not in submission. Just to show he understood.

  Korvek sat back on his pile of rags and grabbed a clay bowl beside him. He dipped two fingers in, pulled out a thick, blackish gruel, and shoved it into his mouth without ceremony.

  — Krath, he said, chewing, mouth half-full. He held the bowl out to Marc. Eat. Tomorrow, combat training. Learn fast.

  Marc took the bowl. The texture was gritty, almost abrasive, like fine sand mixed with dried mud. Black grain. Krath. He’d tasted it in the Pit. It had turned his stomach then, but he’d gotten used to it.

  He brought a handful to his mouth. The first bite was a shock—bitter, dense, like swallowing damp earth. But his stomach, empty since the day before, clenched in relief. Calories. Energy. Survive.

  Korvek watched, a crooked smile playing on his lips.

  — Good, he said. You no vomit. Already better than last one.

  Marc swallowed another bite slowly. He felt the others’ eyes on him. Five men. Five pairs of eyes assessing his strength, his weakness, his potential worth.

  Korvek pointed at a feverish-eyed youth huddled in a corner, knees drawn to his chest.

  — Him, Drenn. The boy briefly lifted his gaze, then dropped it again, like a frightened animal. Three fights. Three wins. Tomorrow… Korvek shrugged. …maybe four. Maybe dead. He gestured to another man, older, his skin streaked with fine gray veins that gleamed in the lamplight. Him, Sorek. Ten fights. Not dead. Not yet. He smirked. Sorek knows where to hit. Not to kill. To… He weighed something with his hand. …conserve.

  Marc understood. Don’t kill the opponent. Just wound him enough to win. So the lanista can resell him. So the meat stays fresh.

  Korvek continued his introductions, pointing in turn to a squat man with burn-scarred arms—Garoth, former smith, now good for nothing but dying slow—and another, leaner, with dark-ringed eyes that never left Marc.

  — Him, Varek. Him, stares too much. Him, don’t talk. Him… Korvek tapped his temple. …crazy. Maybe.

  Varek didn’t react. Just that stare. Fixed. As if searching for something in Marc’s eyes.

  Korvek leaned forward, elbows on knees.

  — Mar-kh. You not from here. You… He made a circular motion before his own face. …talk funny. Don’t understand everything. But you… He thumped his own chest, then Marc’s, twice. …strong. I see. Grukh sees. Maybe you survive. He smiled.

  Marc finished the bowl of Krath, his fingers scraping the bottom. It wasn’t bread. It was a block of sustenance, meant to fill the belly without feeding the soul. When he’d eaten it all, he licked his fingers clean—every crumb counted; every calorie was a day stolen from death.

  Korvek burst into laughter, a rough sound that echoed off the stone walls.

  — You understand! His laughter died as quickly as it came. But you… weight… like stone. Like— he searched for the word, grimaced—…like Vrakh.

  Marc didn’t react. He didn’t know the exact meaning of the word, but he got the idea.

  Heavy. Solid. Like an anvil.

  Korvek nodded, satisfied, as if he’d confirmed something.

  Marc looked around. Five men. Five survivors. Five condemned, perhaps.

  He wasn’t afraid.

  He was just hungry.